


Someone.

by Luccihisstoh



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 00:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13558620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luccihisstoh/pseuds/Luccihisstoh
Summary: An adventure to find what's at the bottom of the world, even if one cannot come back.





	Someone.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first writing on here, so it might look odd.
> 
> This writing is supposed to seem convoluted and repetitive to mirror his state of mind.

Someone's knuckles rapped on the door, but it was too cold to move.  
  
Someone called his name but the warmth clapped over his ears.  
  
Someone said something but the silence enveloped him.  
  
Someone screamed something but everything was too loud to hear, and the scream drowned.  
  
Someone busted the lock opening the door. Someone snapped the wood keeping a room a room. Someone shredded the hinges making a door a door and not a hanging wall.  
  
Someone ran around to him. Someone dropped bags onto the ground. Someone pressed a hand to his red chest, now a sea of ruby.  
  
Blood coated him.  
  
He bled from his nose, a stray trail painted down the corner of his mouth.   
  
He bled from the bullet in his chest, he bled from the stab wound in his numbing side, his eyes leaked salty tears that ran down his face in fat, bulbous drops. __  
  
Who was this person pressing their hands against his blood? Who came in through the door and decided that he wasn't going to die?   
  
He didn't know who Someone was, but he had hair to his shoulders, straight and brown. Dean seemed to remember that it only got a touch longer as the years went on. Twelve years. Or was it thirteen? He couldn't remember.  
  
Someone had green eyes, just like he did. His were green and gold last he decided to look in the mirror, really look and study the face that looked back at him.   
  
He hadn't really looked in years.  
He never liked what looked back.  
  
Someone's mouth moved, but he couldn't hear him. He almost said 'Speak louder', but his lips wouldn't move and his brain couldn't do much then to numb the pain and make sure he breathed.  
  
Someone looked worried. The green that looked back at him seems to shine with tears, just like his, although Dean's were already down his white cheeks.   
  
He again wanted to say something, but he was sure the cold would freeze his lips shut and the warmth would make his throat blister, and that the silence would take his words away and the noise would smother it with chaos.  
_'I swear to God, Sammy. I'm already crying not of my own free-will, you better not start going too. No chick-flick moments, especially when I'm dying over the expensive carpet.'_  
  
Was Someone's name Sammy?   
  
The name seemed familiar, though he couldn't tell why.  
  
Sammy.  
  
S-a-mm-y.   
Sa-m.  
Sam-m.  
Samm-y.  
Sammy.  
  
He didn't know if he recognised the name, but sounding it out in his head seemed like a good idea.   
It was a common name, usually a baby nickname for Sam or Samuel. He almost smiled at the fact that he knew that, three-year-old delirium taking charge as blood seeped through Someone's fingers and to the floor.  
  
Hm.  
Yes.  
He would name this man Sammy, long for Sam and short for Samuel.  
  
  
Someone was Sammy.   
He was sure he needed adoption papers for this, but Hell, he was pretty sure he was leaking out all his insides, so it was a valid excuse.  
  
Sammy looked at him, still worried, still talking to him like he was supposed to listen? but he couldn't. The silence was too loud and the noise dulled everything that made a sound, making it all blend to where it turned to quiet and spread over his senses like warmed butter.  
  
  
Sammy looked down at the blood, lips still moving. Dean very much wanted to ask what the Hell he was talking about but he couldn't. His own mouth wouldn't respond to what he was telling it to do, so he would have to deal with not talking at all.  
  
The man looked up again. He was still worried, and Dean wanted to ask why. It was just a small paper-cut. It wasn't bad. It wasn't like he was dying, he was sure he would know it if he was.  
  
  
_Knock, knock._  
  
It was the same sound Sammy made when he came through the door.  
  
Dean tried to see what it was, but he couldn't. His head was still against the tapering corner of the blanket that led up to the surface of the motel bed. He was the one always closest to the door, but this time his back was facing away from it, just in time to be inconvenient for him as his body felt like unmovable lead.  
  
_Knock knock._  
  
That one was faster, and he tried to make his head move again. It did just a little bit, sliding across the fabric as he pushed his gaze to the door.  
  
_Knock knock knock._  
  
'Coming' his mind echoed. This, Someone, was impatient. At least Sammy had the etiquette to wait more than five milliseconds to start another set of knocks.   
  
He waited. Attempted to suck in a breath, and shifted his head again to where he could see the door.  
  
  
As soon as his gaze landed on the wood, it creaked open, light spilling from the outside.  
  
Sammy didn't seem to notice the opening door, but he did see that Dean's head had turned.  
  
Maybe this guy was oblivious, just like he was oblivious that this was just a  _paper cut_ , not like he had been stabbed or shot or something. He was pretty sure he would know if he had.  
  
  
Dean kept his head on the door, blinks sluggish to Sammy's eyes but not to his.  
  
Dean waited.  
  
And waited.  
  
And waited until a woman stepped in.  
  
She was dressed in tight black leather pants, a tight black leather shirt, a tight black leather jacket, and black leather boots.  
  
Part of his spinning mind felt bad for those cows that died making that outfit, but then again, burgers.  
He couldn't feel that sorry.  
  
He glanced over at Sammy again, and Sammy was looking at him but not at the woman who looked at Dean.  
She walked slowly around the opening and closed the door.  
  
Her hair was long and straight and black, just like the rest of her. Even her eyes were black too.  
Maybe she was going to a funeral after this.   
He wondered who for.  
Maybe he should say that he gives his condolences.  
  
  
His eyes went to Sammy, and Sammy didn't look up at the woman.  
Maybe she was an unwanted guest that Sammy didn't like.  
Maybe he should ask her to leave.  
  
He looked back to the woman, trying to part his lips and actually say something. It took a bit, to be able to do it as his mind was focused in on this one little thing. 'Maybe you should leave.'  
It still didn't come from his mouth.  
'I think you should leave.'   
  
Last he remembered it hadn't been this hard to talk.  
He paused, swallowing. He ran the sentence through his head again, practicing the movements in his head as he turned his eyes back up again to the woman, who had now found a sitting place on the foot of the bed.  
  
Dean looked at her determinedly, tensed his jaw, swallowed, and attempted to speak.  
  
"I-th'k-ve."  
  
Damn.  
It was better than nothing, he knew that, but he wasn't a toddler. He could talk. He had been for years now.  
  
So why was it so hard?  
He stopped again, prepped himself, and spoke again;  
  
"I t-think.. you sh'uld l-l..l-"  
He stopped himself. He couldn't say 'leave'.   
It wasn't hard.  
Just, 'leave'.   
  
He had done it before, he knew what it meant and how to say it but he still didn't understand why the Hell his mouth wouldn't let him speak it.  
  
"Le..lea-leave," he repeated. "L-leave. Leave." He said the word again, then again in his head as he finally managed to let it tumble through his mouth and into the ears of whoever was around to hear it.  
  
  
The woman clad in leather looked at him with... sympathy? Remorse? He couldn't tell, but she shook her head all the same.  
  
She slid closer to him, now leaning on the nearest bedpost, and shook her head.  
  
As she came closer, a feeling washed over him, real warmth, the comforting kind that you feel once you're falling asleep, fuzzy and clingy like a wanted form of lint.  
It made his eyelids droop and his muscles relax, his vision losing a bit of its focus as the room blurred and Sammy turned into a big blob of flannel paint.  
  
The woman kept looking at him, keeping her eyes trained on Dean's.  
  
Never let go of your kills, they had taught her. Losing eye-contact can be the downfall.  
  
  
He didn't notice at first because his head was still turned from when he shifted to where he could see the door, but Sammy had reached out a gentle hand and turned his older sibling's head to where Dean's gaze was at his.   
Dean's eyes were glazed over, a shiny sheen of blankness washing over them like Death's form of bleach, to wipe the colour away.  
  
Sammy said something, something said with urgency; Dean could tell, but he still couldn't tell what he was saying so it didn't mean much to him, he just felt comfortable and warm and safe.  
  
The woman came close again when Sam turned his brother's head, moving from the bedpost like a snake and sinking to the floor next to the dying man.  
  
She didn't speak to her Takes, and it earned her her name. Silence. She was the wind that carried the souls home, and this one was no different.  
  
  
Dean felt it. The warmth soaked through his skin and to his bones as the blood that poured out left Death to be poured in.  
  
The warmth was stronger now, pricking his skin in soft bursts and taking him closer and closer to wherever the end was, wherever this new road would lead.  
  
Her hand moved to Dean's cheek, her touch gentle as one finger made his head turn.  
  
His green looked into her ebony as his vibrance filled her own.  
  
His memories played in front of him like a tape.  
The carving of initials into a car. The stuffing of legos into the air vent so it rattled every time it was turned to life. The fitting of army-men into the handles that still stood guard in that Impala.  
  
He could hear Sam's laughs. He could see his smile. He could see his eyes when he looked into Jessica's.  
He was happy.  
  
He was happy.  
  
That was all Dean wanted in his life, the only thing he had asked the gods and angels for, he wanted his brother to be happy.  
  
He remembered the happy days. He 'remembered' those memories that the Reaper beside him plugged into his head as a last farewell, that it was okay to go, that his sibling was happy, and that it was his time. His brother would be okay.  
  
_My baby brother will be okay, and happy._  
  
_Happy._  
  
  
  
One word he thought to Silence as she looked at him, one thing he thought as happiness glazed his eyes over and stopped his heart from beating, stopped his blood from flowing, the one word that let the light go from his eyes, the one thing that had been asked from the beginning.  
  
And so he answered to the Reaper, and so he answered to his sibling, and so he answered;  
  
'Yes.'  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**[hello there readers! hope you liked what I wrote c: . I planned for this to be a one-shot, but if demand comes to say 'don't let Dean die!' your wish is my command.**  
  
**[please leave a review or kudo! it is my lifeblood, and it really does help :). Thanks for reading!]**


End file.
